Like any other Tuesday, Lawrence walked straight up to me, said good morning, and gave me my daily up-top high five. Lawrence’s consistent courtesy and cheerfulness often came as a breath of fresh air during a stressful day.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t at school yesterday, Mr. Jesse,” he said.
“Oh it’s fine, buddy.”
“I had a family emergency, that’s why I missed school,” he told me, explaining his absence in his typical pleasant tone. Whatever happened, he didn't make it sound like a big deal.
“I’m sorry to hear that," I said with a pat on the shoulder. "I hope everything is okay."
“Thank you!” Before he left to eat his breakfast he flashed his signature Lawrence smile -- a cheek-to-cheek grin made of a few silver teeth and a whole lot of spirit. It looked almost too large for his thin frame.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t at school yesterday, Mr. Jesse,” he said.
“Oh it’s fine, buddy.”
“I had a family emergency, that’s why I missed school,” he told me, explaining his absence in his typical pleasant tone. Whatever happened, he didn't make it sound like a big deal.
“I’m sorry to hear that," I said with a pat on the shoulder. "I hope everything is okay."
“Thank you!” Before he left to eat his breakfast he flashed his signature Lawrence smile -- a cheek-to-cheek grin made of a few silver teeth and a whole lot of spirit. It looked almost too large for his thin frame.
Later that day, Lawrence called me over to where he was sitting for lunch.
“Mr. Jesse, I’m sorry I missed school yesterday,” he told me again, word for word, but this time a little more serious. He looked like he desperately wanted to get something off his chest.
“Don’t worry about it, Lawrence,” I said. “Is everything okay?”
“I had a family emergency,” he repeated. “My mother got into an argument with our landlord and we had to leave our house.”
“So where are you living now?” I asked him, now worried.
“Oh it’s fine,” the child said, trying to calm his teacher's fears. “We have a hotel room. My mom says we’re going to move back to our old place soon.”
I was relieved he wasn’t sleeping on the streets.
“How are you doing? You okay?”
“Yep, I’m fine!” he assured me.
“How are your siblings?” Lawrence was the oldest of four and was a great older brother from what I had observed at school. “Are you taking care of them?”
“Yes sir, Mr. Jesse! They’re all good,” he proclaimed with that signature smile.
“Good, I’m glad to hear that,” I said. “I’m proud of you, buddy. You know that? You’re a brave kid.”
He thanked me and skipped off to get his lunch.
After our conversation, I went to Lawrence's homeroom teacher to tell her what I had just learned. Thankfully she was already aware of the situation and said she was working with his mom to help them get settled.
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"...we had to leave our house.” |
It’s difficult to parse out all the facts and details of a situation when you are getting them from an eight-year-old, but from what I could gather it sounded a lot like he was telling me that Lawrence's family emergency was an eviction. According to the District of Columbia, all evictions require a judicial process, must be pursuant to a court order, and must be scheduled and supervised by the U.S. Marshals Service. Official eviction lawsuits in Washington, D.C. are often over minor infractions, such as walking a dog without a leash or a late rent payments of less than $100. D.C.’s annual average of 6,554 court-ordered evictions and the growing number of eviction lawsuits are suggestive of the city’s complicated relationship with gentrification and segregation, as landlords in nicer neighborhoods will be far less likely to rent to tenants with eviction records – many of whom are poor African Americans.
Moreover, informal evictions – where landlords might pay a tenant to move out in a week or simply remove their door – are twice as common as formal evictions but are not counted in official city records. This means the actual number of forced moves in D.C. could be somewhere near 12,000. Regardless of the type of eviction or possible reasons why Lawrence's family got evicted, the potential negative consequences they now faced were clear. A stable place to call home is one of the top factors in predicting future success, both academically and career-wise. Mothers who are evicted are more likely to suffer from depression and higher stress levels, and their children face poorer health outcomes than children who have not experienced an eviction. And these negative side effects can last for years. According to Matthew Desmond, Harvard researcher and author of Evicted: Poverty and Profit in the American City: “In some instances, eviction may not simply drop poor mothers and their children into a dark valley, a trying yet relatively short section along life’s journey; it may fundamentally redirect their way, casting them onto a different, and much more difficult, path.” |
I began to anxiously watch the door each morning, waiting for Lawrence and his younger siblings to arrive to school. I worried they might suddenly just up and move, transfer schools, and we’d never hear from them again. Such abrupt exits were not rare at Hendley.
Luckily, this never happened, and everyday Lawrence would greet me with that same smile and high five he had all year long.
I got in the habit of briefly checking in with him at recess every few days.
“Still in the hotel?” I’d ask.
“Yep, but it’s not so bad.” His relentless positivity astounded me.
“You’re a brave kid,” I would tell him. “I’m proud of you, buddy.”
I always ended our conversations that way. I’m not sure if those were the exact “right” words to say to a homeless child but that’s genuinely how I felt, and I wanted him to know that.
Luckily, this never happened, and everyday Lawrence would greet me with that same smile and high five he had all year long.
I got in the habit of briefly checking in with him at recess every few days.
“Still in the hotel?” I’d ask.
“Yep, but it’s not so bad.” His relentless positivity astounded me.
“You’re a brave kid,” I would tell him. “I’m proud of you, buddy.”
I always ended our conversations that way. I’m not sure if those were the exact “right” words to say to a homeless child but that’s genuinely how I felt, and I wanted him to know that.
Lawrence eventually informed both me and his homeroom teacher that his family had moved out of the hotel and were living together in a homeless shelter.
His behavior and academic performance noticeably slipped in those weeks between his eviction and moving to the shelter. Around that time, a new boy joined our class. Lawrence instigated arguments with the new boy on a near-daily basis, usually over nothing in particular. The conflicts often ended with Lawrence in the hall, crying.
Lawrence was always an enthusiastic student, and that didn’t really change. He did, however, become dramatically more fragile. If he got a question wrong on a worksheet, he’d put his head down and give up for the day. If he raised his hand but wasn’t called on, he threw a temper tantrum. Knowing what I did about his situation, I was honestly just happy he was showing up and trying at all. To me, at least in the short term, that was enough.
Sadly, however, his efforts to show up those weeks most likely will not reward him in the long term. The reality is that Lawrence’s homelessness, even if only temporary, puts him up against some pretty tough odds of ever finding academic success down the road. Across all grade levels, students with any history of homelessness consistently perform much lower on standardized tests than their peers without such a history.
And while I think his attitude is special, Lawrence is not a special student. He is far below grade-level in just about every category, and all the information we have points to a difficult uphill climb for Lawrence in his next nine years of schooling.
I have no delusions that Lawrence's attitude makes him destined for success. But I can still hope.
Throughout the school year, I liked to help different kids with their jump shots on the basketball court after school. By spring time, Lawrence was my latest protege.
He was terrible. Washington Wizards terrible. He couldn’t get the ball to the rim nine times out of ten, but boy did he have a great time. He loved to take off running from half-court, sprint all the way until he was right underneath the basket, throw the ball up, and then break into uncontrollable laughter when his inevitable “air-ball” fell back to the ground. As soon as he gained his composure, he’d run right back to the half-court line and do it all over again. His smile never faded.
We played this way on a Friday afternoon, a little over two weeks after Lawrence first told me about his “family emergency.” After watching him run a series of his half-court sprints and missed layups for a few minutes, I took a seat on the blacktop underneath the basket to watch a couple of fifth graders play a game of three on three. Lawrence popped a squat right next to me.
“Got any plans for the weekend?” I asked him.
“Nope,” he said.
“Are you still staying at the shelter?” He shook his head yes. “How do you like it?”
“It’s okay,” he responded. “The people are nice and I get to share a big bed with my brother.”
“That’s good! Do you eat there?”
“We get dinner every night except weekends. On weekends we only get breakfast.”
I wasn’t sure if asking more questions was a good idea, but he seemed so eager to talk that I didn’t want to let the moment pass – opportunities like this to connect on a deeper level with my students came so few and far between, and I knew my time working at Hendley was quickly coming to a close. I also spent so much time outside of work worrying about Lawrence that I thought getting an image of his life outside of school might somehow calm some of my anxiety. So I pressed on, tentatively.
“So where else do you eat on weekends then?”
“Sometimes we go to McDonald’s up the street, sometimes we walk around the neighborhood looking for a cookout we can go to.” He paused, then looked at me and smiled. “Cookouts have the best food.”
The more we spoke, the more Lawrence impressed me. Here, right in front of me, was a child saying that he didn’t know exactly where or how he would get his meals in the next few days, yet showed no signs of desperation. He clearly understood his family was in a rough spot, to say the least. Regardless, he never once gave the impression that he felt sorry for himself; I wondered if self-pity was something that develops with age. Having met his mother a handful of times, I could see how his fortitude was likely rooted in her own strength.
“You’re a brave kid, buddy,” I reminded him, “I hope you get to do something fun this weekend.”
He quickly perked up.
“Oh, I will, Mr. Jesse,” he said. “I think we are going to go to my grandfather’s friend’s house!”
“Oh yeah?” I asked, trying to reciprocate his excitement but having no idea why it was significant.
“Yeah! And sometimes he lets me and my brother rake the leaves on his lawn,” he said getting more and more excited. “And sometimes... he gives me ten dollars.”
“TEN DOLLARS!” I shrieked. “Ooooooooh that’s good money, little dude.”
“I know,” he said, nodding his head with swagger.
“What are you going to do with ten whole dollars?”
At this point his excitement was through the roof. I thought maybe he'd tell me about some toy or video game he'd been eyeing. But when he turned to face me -- flashing that smile -- he spoke with the calmness and security of a boy who had spent a lot of time thinking about this, a boy who was never more sure of anything in his life.
“Do you want to know what my dream is, Mr. Jesse?”
“Of course.”
“My dream is that someday I can save one hundred dollars. Then I can buy my mother a nice big house, and she won’t have to worry about anything anymore.”
